


few thousand miles (and an ocean away)

by stardustshrimp



Category: Destiny (Video Games)
Genre: F/M, Game: Destiny 2: Forsaken DLC Spoilers, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Pre-Relationship, The Anti-Fix It Fic: You Cannot Change Anything, Time Loop AU But Only Sort Of, feat. Cayde-6 POV, guardian will keep all her feelings Right Here and then one day... oh. oh no, hey this has been in my drafts for a lil bit, im still. miss him., there is only One loop, you can tell i know like .3 abt destiny lol
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-11
Updated: 2021-01-11
Packaged: 2021-03-15 12:20:35
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,386
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28688553
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stardustshrimp/pseuds/stardustshrimp
Summary: The Guardian wakes up in the Tower, and everything is fine.And maybe Cayde alive again will be the death of her.
Relationships: Cayde-6 & Female Guardian (Destiny), Cayde-6/Female Guardian (Destiny)
Comments: 1
Kudos: 9





	few thousand miles (and an ocean away)

**Author's Note:**

> bruh i would love to draft a fix it fic but also like consider some things  
> \- i couldn't physically keep. doing d2 like the pathfinding is just so skdsfjksdf. gotta say though crow is a p strong argument (ty zita) in favor of me downloading it again ngl  
> \- sigh. something something the pain of longing
> 
> That said, here's where you sit there powerless and listen for the death knells.

You’d tried to change it.

Waking up back in a Tower untouched by even the beginning pangs of the Red War, the Light singing silk in your veins the way it never _quite_ did after regaining it, the sledgehammer ring of thoughts had almost done you in right there. And the realization with the killing edge, the one among the storm that you felt grazing your cheek as you bolted up in your bed, chest heaving, eyes stinging:

_Still here. He’s still here._

It had been blatant, at first. In hindsight, you had been wild-eyed, some deranged thing clawing your armor on in your haste to _go_ , to warn them all of what was to come. Certainly, you’d given Ghost – so exuberant, still, and it made you choke – the pinnacle of all scares.

“What’s gotten into you? Are you alright? You aren’t physically hurt – what happened? Guardian, speak to me!”

“He’s going to _kill_ him,” you almost shrilled, desperation turning your voice to glass. “He’s going to – I wasn’t quick enough, but – this time, this time I _have to–”_ Your gauntlet, half-unbuckled, slipped down your forearm; you remembered the tears rolling down your face, scalding.

 _“Cayde,_ ” you said finally.

You could see it, the exact moment where Ghost’s sharp distress at a real threat softened into concern. You saw the gears turning, the entirely wrong realization settling in, and he drifted forward to bump your forehead slightly.

“It helps to talk about them, you know,” he told you quietly. “Nightmares.”

“It’s not…” It wasn’t. You drew breath again, to say that it had been so real, that this had to have been the dream, that carrying the gunslinger home had been the cruelest experience in your second life, weighing heavy on your soul.

“You really care about him, don’t you?” Ghost asked first, soft. “About Cayde.”

“I do.” _I did._ “I do…”

And you couldn’t dwell on _how_ you cared, couldn’t think too much on any of anything even remotely related without the _hurt_ , and it occurred to you that maybe the Vanguard themselves would be able to sort you out, and maybe along the way you could make Ghost understand…

Going to the Vanguard directly somehow fared worse. With Ghost, you could just believe that you hadn’t been convincing enough, that he had just been blinded by what he thought the problem had been. Here, after some adjustment, you could gather your thoughts, support your claims rationally.

But every time you drew breath to _speak_ it was like smoke in your lungs, choking the words into nothing the instant they sprung up, and it was all you could do to look Zavala in the eyes and present some new reason for your sudden visits. For a time, you became a frantic, flighty thing, and you read the concern for your erratic energy in the shadows of everyone’s eyes.

It took time for you to recover from the vicious denial, the sharp little gnawing of this thing on the horizon and the awful fact that you were just unable to get the _words_ out. The day you did, you realized the extent of your powerlessness here. There were so many points that proceeded the exact same way, regardless of how differently you did things. You still bleached one of your shirts in the exact same misshapen butterfly stain it had held the last time around. You still slipped off the railing and fell to one of your deaths after swearing you wouldn’t leave your bedroom that day, Cayde’s laughter following the tale for days afterward.

There was no changing this. There was no howling rage at the Traveler, at the tragedy, at the fact that you had to make eye contact with the Hunter himself without letting on that you wanted to hold him and never let go, and break apart doing it.

The acceptance was hollow when it lit on your shoulders.

At least you could still enjoy his presence while you had it.

* * *

There’s a sadness in your eyes whenever you look at him these days. It’s so fleeting, and so insubstantial whenever it does touch your face and round your shoulders; he doesn’t know whether it’s something he did or something someone did to you, and he doesn’t know which option he finds worse. He’s seen you fall and come back up time and time again, injuries always undone by your attentive Ghost, but this hurt has no physical cause, and it _bothers_ him. Worse still, there’s nothing concrete enough for him to directly call attention to. 

You’re trying very hard not broadcast it, he can tell – the little winces and shuddery sighs are slight, and soft, and so far in between – but he’s _Cayde_ , and so he tries very hard to nudge it out into the open in his own super-subtle way. 

“Looking a little tired, there,” he presses on one occasion, watching your head tilt slightly. “Sure you got in your eight hours of beauty sleep?” 

“What, am I not looking young and gorgeous enough this time around?” 

Your words are teasing, but you also arch a brow at him in a way that would do Ikora proud. He raises his hands at the expression.

“Alright, message received. Just thought I’d ask, you know, show some of that _emotional intelligence_ I get badgered so much about.” A long-suffering sigh. “Figures my efforts go unlauded in these dark times.”

The drama draws a laugh out of you, one that is maybe slightly less strained than your expression had been earlier; it’s not a win, but the fondness in your eyes definitely counts for something.

“I don’t know that I’d go so far as to call it _intelligence_ ,” you reply with the smallest smile, flicking his shoulder. “But I do appreciate the effort. Half-effort. Semi. Maybe a quarter—”

“Whoa, I said message received!”

“Also, I never thought I’d say this, but ramen’s on me tonight and yet you don’t seem to be half as excited as you usually are about not paying for your dinner. Everything okay?” 

_I should be asking you that_ , he can-should- _wants to_ say. _What has you hurt so badly? Look, I know I’m not the most touchy-feely, but something is eating you alive from the inside out and it’s got me a little concerned._

_Why, Cayde?_ you could maybe-possibly reply. _I’ve been keeping it quiet, where it can’t bother anyone. Why do you care?_

_Why do I…? Because – look, it’s – Traveler’s sake, Guardian, I_ care _about you._

And in this scenario, there are revelations, and there are embraces, and there is the rough-hewn confession you whisper against his throat, hands gripping his shoulders. Maybe he receives an explanation of the fear that weighs you down, the dread. Maybe he is also given the reason behind it, the longing and the fondness and the heartbreak, raw enough to split the sky. 

But he doesn’t say any of it; instead, he casts a look over your expression. At the real pain shadowed just behind your eyes; the way you almost seem to be waiting for some terrible body blow that will leave you gasping on the ground. But also at the way that you stand close to him, expression softening as he makes his gestures, his jokes. And instead, he relents, just a little, just enough to let it go for a moment.

“… You are covering drinks too, right?”

Something about his tone seems to shake you. (Jovial, but only just; a thin veneer of bright audacity overshadowing his Hunter’s need to _know._ ) He watches your brows jump, your lips part in a pained expression – but he’s left you the opening, and the moment lasts a half-instant before you’ve curved your mouth back into a half-smile.

“Yeah,” you say. He cuffs you lightly on the arm.

“That’s my Guardian!”

Next time, he will have his answer. 

_Who hurt you? I need details._

_Like hell I’m gonna sit by and watch you drown in your own head. **Talk** to me. Talk to me, talk to me._

_Please._

But he never does speak up. 

And then, too soon, the Tower falls, and the Light fades, and no one’s anywhere to be found, and Cayde’s too caught up in the rush of his plan - shooting Ghaul _right in his face_ – to really grieve. 


End file.
